Week 3, Original Prompt

In Lee Martin's essay "Sorry," the narrator describes various broken relationships he had during his childhood: with his mother, father, with Katrina. He says that he was timid like his mother, but never close. His father whipped him often, and he hoped that Katrina, his female neighbor of close age, would not hear the happenings within his home. He gives some history on the possible reasons why his father was always so angry, but he didn't "make peace" with him until later in life "through the grace of my mother's faith in goodness." In the end, he has a chance to change the outcome of his relationship with Katrina but doesn't. Despite the high emotions surrounding these various relationships, Martin utilizes cool prose and reasoning when guiding his reflection. He also incorporates an element of carelessness within his essay- his father lost his hands when he had been “careless” with the corn picker, he was “reckless” when he wrestled with Katrina’s brother, the characters were all careless with their relationships with one another.

Prompt: Attempt to describe a relationship lost or a regret you have while maintaining cool prose about material with such high emotions. 

Original Prompt, Week 1

In Michael W. Cox’s essay "Visitor," the narrator tells us about a young boy that his father kept in the outdoor basement, and the story focuses on the young boy, Jody, and the room in which he stays and the narrator’s speculations on what transpires in the basement. The room in which the boy stayed was where the narrator and his brother would play, and the narrator describes the room as being “like an indoor tree house” with dirt and wooden planks on the floor and an old couch, where the narrator imagined Jody would sleep. When the narrator first encounters him, Jody asks him to retrieve him a couple of sandwiches and asks him questions in regards to the events within the house: “You eat good inside there?” In addition, the narrator speculates throughout the essay what Jody goes through/does: “Maybe he’d read books and would remember them, or see, in his mind, TV shows he’d already seen[…]” Their relationship seems to be built upon wondering what happens to each other in rooms they cannot look in.

Prompt: Write an essay fixated on or around a specific room without you actually being in the room. What do you see enter and/or leave the room? Use creative reasoning to reflect and juggle possible events that may or may not have transpired based upon what you have seen. 

Response to Melissa Sullivan's Memory 2, Week 2 - Week 1

I really enjoyed your incorporation of the knightly mannerisms shared between Chip and Brian. I think it sets up this unique connection between these two characters and allows your readers an interesting insight to how you see these two people. If you continue this avenue, I would be careful when juggling not to become too emotional since your husband is involved and Brian seems to be hurt and in the hospital, I believe. (Not sure. Only detail we are given is the fact that a cell phone is not allowed on the premises.) By possibly offering a historical "ball" to be juggled, the high emotions could be counterbalanced smoothly. I am particularly curious to know as to why “Kona” or Brian hids his face from “Lord Chip.” Is he ashamed of his “battle wounds” or weakness? Is it out of pride or embarrassment? Depending upon the reason, I think you could definitely highlight historically how proud the knights were to keep the emotions cool. I also find it interesting how your husband refers to him as Kona rather than by his real name. You could even play with the idea of reality vs. imaginary. What is real between these two people and what is not? How else could you incorporate this theme? I think that would be an extremely interesting twist.  

Response to Diamond Forde's Reportage Final Week, Week 1

Diamond, I think you should further expand this piece. The idea of displacement within this piece plays well- new apartment, the smoke resembling the previous tenants. I think you could add another element to fulfill the "power of three" rule. What is another ball you could juggle along with this? The living in an apartment with someone who isn't your mom or dad? (Not sure if I am correct in this fact.) Definitely flesh this theme out more and expand! You’ve already got an interesting start of reflection in here. Now show us how you came to this displacement. Why are you moving? What does this mean to you in this particular moment in your life? Is this move significant? Why or why not? Do you choose to stay here? If so, why did you stay despite your allergies acting up? Is this all you could get at the time? I really would like to see you incorporate more and give us some background history.

I like your attention to detail and the ability to highlight uncanny portrayals-such as the hornet outside. It demonstrates your ability to focus in on images that otherwise become unnoticed and allow them a “reasoned” home within your piece. (You don’t just throw it in there for giggles nor is it out of place. It is well-incorporated into your piece.)

Reportage 1, Week 1

I walk into the Music Department’s computer lab, and there she sits. Third from the right at the computers against the back wall wearing a UWG RA t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Her hair pulled up into a pony tail, more like a horse’s tail—long and course. There she sits with her back to the door and her hands flying across the keyboard as she Facebooks. There she sits flirting with my husband. I was surprising Tony with a birthday lunch that day, and I knew he would be in the computer lab after his Pedagogy and Literature class. After waiting long enough to ensure that he would be in the lab, I swiped his student ID card that I lifted from his wallet at three that morning and began to enter the room. She stopped me from approaching him. For her sake, I won’t release her name here for fear of her physical well-being, but Tony and I had held several discussions about her leading up to his birthday. She would habitually text him each day to wish him both a “good morning” and a “good night.” Also, she would want to constantly go to lunch with him and refused to let Tony introduce me to her. Sounds a little bit like a relationship, doesn’t it? I guess that’s what she wanted. I don’t blame her though. 

Oddity 1, Week 1

I hold my breath as I prepare my brother's salad. It's not much of a secret. It's essentially a salad without the lettuce. I go to the fridge and retrieve American sliced cheese, shredded cheddar cheese, and Catalina dressing. From the pantry, I get the croutons and crackers. As I mix the ingredients together in a plastic soup bowl, my six-year-old brother wearing a Spiderman Halloween costume as pajamas watches in anticipation. His lips smacking as the uncontrollable saliva builds in his mouth all for a grueling combination of ketchup, sugar, and Worcestershire sauce with processed cheese. Why do our kids choose to succumb themselves to a "fake," unappetizing dinner when pork chops with sausage stuffing sits on the table? Why do we feel the need to eat food that tastes as bad as it is for us? I understand that a burger and fries from the local fast food restaurant ensures a hot meal in less than five minutes that can be easily consumed on the go, but why do we often opt for it in place of cooking a simple meal? Think about it for one minute with me. Let’s assume that you are ready to walk out the door. You walk out, lock the front door, walk to your car, climb in, start the engine, drive about ten minutes to the local McDonalds or Wendys, sit about fifteen minutes in line ordering and getting your food, drive about another ten minutes back to the house, park, walk up the stairs, unlock the front door, head into the kitchen, dish any portions out to your family, and finally sit down and eat. All in all, this is about a 40 minute process that could have been spent cooking breakfast for dinner or merely baking a chicken in the oven without having to leave the comfort of one’s home. Doesn’t make sense to me. 

Peer Response 1, Final Week: Diamond

First of all, your first sentence reminds me of a T-shirt one would get at small attraction: "I went to Ruby Falls and all I got was this shirt." Immediately caught my attention. Secondly, I agree with Jenna that the journey, or walking through the thrift store, would add a great amount of detail and "meaning" to your essay. Show us how your child-like mind came to pick up this particular item. What did you bypass to get to this bowl? Third, I find the price written in sharpie to be interesting. If you are attempting to apply definition to this "candy dish," what does "15 cents" marked in Sharpie do to this? I'd like to see you juggle this idea in as well. Fourth, you start to flesh out your reflection extremely well, but then I become lost in the idea that you want to become this bowl. Like Jenna, I'm not completely convinced that you "desperately" want to understand its history. Maybe flesh this out a little more to convey the desperation of your speaker and lose "desperately." Fifth, when your mother makes that blanketed statement, who is she talking to? Does this play any importance? If she is talking to another mother, does this reinforce your want to understand how the bowl came to collect so much dust?

Original Prompt, Final Week

"I am not a scholar of English or literature. I cannot give you much more than personal opinions on the English language and its variations in this country or others.
I am a writer. And by that definition, I am someone who has always loved language. I am fascinated by language in daily life. I spend a great deal of my time thinking about the power of language -- the way it can evoke an emotion, a visual image, a complex idea, or a simple truth. Language is the tool of my trade. And I use them all -- all the Englishes I grew up with." 


"Her language, as I hear it, is vivid, direct, full of observation and imagery. That was the language that helped shaped the way I saw things, expressed things, made sense of the world." -Amy Tan, "Mother Tongue"


After completing my Bachelor's degree in English in Decemeber, I plan to pursue a Master's degree in Speech and Language Pathology, and Amy Tan's essay "Mother Tongue" reinforced the desire to understand the development of language among children with special needs. First, her technique of introducing what "she is not" in the very beginning of her essay pushes the reader into a specified direction from the get-go. She ensures that her reading audience understands that this is not an essay about dialect or language but instead about genuine experiences involving language, which allows for more reader intriguement. Second, she "suggests" particular point of views that people hold in regards to people who do not speak "perfect" English without ranting or raving about them. She seems to have hot emotions toward such people but keeps her prose quite cool. Overall, she utilizes strong technique to illustrate how language plays to the writers advantage regardless of presupposed opinions about one's background or status. From reading her essay, I developed the following prompt. 


Describe a conversation you overheard between two or more people in which at least one person used "broken" English or a unique accent or a conversation you were directly involved in where the other person used "broken" English or a different accent. What were your initial thoughts about this person and their "status" in life? Did you think they were poor or rich, educated or not, etc. What was the conversation about? For example, was it a conversation about Wall Street spoken with "broken" English? Or was it a conversation you overheard or were involved in with a special needs individual that had difficulty expressing his/herself. 

Junkyard Quotes, Final Week

"Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught."  -Oscar Wilde


‎"How you live in the moment affects how you live in the hour, and the day, and the lifetime."



"I can't wait for Kelly to get older...so she will start sleeping in!"  -My friend talking about her little sister


‎"The problems that exist in the world today cannot be solved by the level of thinking that created them." -Albert Einstein 



"AXE Rise helps you keep up with a brainy girl." -Axe Commercial

Original Prompt, Week 7

“We walk back to the first body, unmingling stories. They divide up the bodies. They take the clothes off. What I thought before seeing it all: never again will I know the body as I do now. And how, exactly, is that?”  -“Autopsy Report,” Purpura

Purpura’s essay explores the process of conducting an autopsy, and she begins with snippet introductions/ physical descriptions of different people. As the story continues, Purpura focuses on the details of these individuals while describing how the body is processed at the scene, the thoroughness of the notes of a medical examiner, and the thoughts that fly between the investigators and the ME. While reading this essay, it reminded me of the stories I have heard while at the hospital and doctor office’s waiting rooms. Everyone seems to have a story to tell, and human nature” forces” us to yearn for someone to just listen. Just like in a grocery store checkout line, the middle-aged lady in front of you starts out making pleasant conversation, and the next thing you know, you are being told about her teenage escapades of last night. However, I find stories relating bodily injury to be more interesting and often funnier. You can’t help but wonder why he was jumping of the second story of his house into an above-ground pool with a trampoline sitting in it.

Prompt: Describe a person you’ve met or seen in the hospital waiting room or a doctor’s office. What were they there for and what was their story? Did they injure themselves in a go-cart accident or split their head open on a set of bunkbeds? 

Oddity 1, Week 7

Each morning, I go to outside garden to conduct daily price changes and validate the occasional bay, and each day, I walk past the exotic plant stand lined with a variety of cacti, aloe vera, and other desert plants. Usually, I don't pay them much attention. Cacti have never really dazzled me in terms of beauty. Strange and practical, yes. Usually it's the tulips that attract me this time of the year. Last week, when I walked by, there was a small flower top lying on the floor next to the cacti. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was actually fake and had been spray-painted and hot glued to the tops. Unbeknownst to me, the plant vendors from Pure Beauty conduct this ritual to encourage customers to purchase them. They feel that if customers see an element of beauty, such as a flower, then they will be more inclined to purchase the plant. I don’t understand the need for fake beauty when the plants produce their own flowers as time goes on. Perhaps it merely reinforces this obsession to keep things pretty and in place, no matter how fake. Much like the stars seen on the cover of Starz magazine in the checkout line at Kroger. People like fake. It’s comfortable and something to aspire towards. 

Response to Diamond's "Improv 1," Week 7

I think you should build upon this "topic" of lack of community utilizing the various slogans of the businesses in Douglasville. This would be an interesting toggling technique for such an essay, and you could even tie in history of Douglasville or companies or strip malls to help develop it. Personally, I would like to see a tie-in of the environment and how these “community” slogans contradict the goals of an environmentalist area. For example, Lowe’s is located in the same strip area as Applebee’s and their slogan is “Let’s build something together.” Do communities as large as Douglasville actually build things or do they destroy as they expand? Are they working more towards a “neighborhood” or merely “more saving, more doing” as Home Depot suggests? You could even play with idea of why Atlanta would want to keep its charm there? 

As far as reflection goes, remember to avoid the obvious. Yes, this essay could focus on the lack of community and how the slogans contradict the idea, and it could tie-in environmental issues and how the community takes advantage. But how does the message in your essay differ from others? How will you keep this from becoming propaganda for EPA? Most importantly, to me anyway, why is this so important to you? Convey it to your reading audience.

Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 7

1) From "How I Met Your Mother" Season 1, Episode 7

Lily: Just play cool, don't Ted-out about it.

Ted: Did you just use my name as a verb?

Barney: Oh, yeah, we do that behind your back. “Ted-out”: to overthink. Also see “Ted-up.”  “Ted-up”: to overthink with disastrous results. Sample sentence: “Billy Tedded-up when he tried-”

2) "You gotta mark your territory, and I don't mean missing the toilet."

3) Walking on campus, overheard two girls talking about a girl in their class: "Slut alert!"

4) "All men are brothers, Like the seas throughout the world, So why do winds and waves clash fiercely everywhere?" -written on a whiteboard in the library [Later I googled the quote and discovered that it was originally used by Emperor Hirohito.]

Memory 1, Week 7

Disclaimer: I started thinking about my uncle and this is what came out. Still working with it, but I attempted to avoid high emotion and hot prose combinations.

He wasn’t really alive the night before. More content, comfortable, complacent with his decision. Standing in the kitchen of his home in Carrollton, my uncle Tim and I swapped band stories and talked about the prospect of a Spring wedding in his backyard. My wedding. The idea was abandoned the next when my aunt found him in the basement leaning against the water heater. Gun still his right hand and a note in his left. “I can’t go back to the hospital.”

To this day, the bag of Reese’s Cups he bought the night before remains on the bottom shelf of my aunt’s refrigerator door. Unable to toss them out. The suicide didn’t bother me the most nor did his lack of reasoning in the letter left behind. I can even understand how we misconstrued the smiles into believing that he was getting better.  It was the receipt for the gun he tucked away in his wallet—purchased seven days prior. It takes seven days to obtain a permit in the state of Georgia. How could he have been so comfortable with killing himself that he waited seven days without uttering a word? It was probably the best seven days of his life. He made peace with himself and left a broken family behind. I confess that anger came first and still lingers. It’s only natural, right? Selfishly, he left my aunt—his wife—alone in this world.

I think my cousin, Colin, handled it best. He carried the weight that a child of fourteen should never have to bear. But wisdom came from it. A few weeks after Tim’s funeral, Paula underwent her daily breakdown, and he mentioned something I had not considered for anger blinded me.

 “Mom, why are you so angry?”

“He left us alone, and that makes me so angry.”

“He couldn’t help it. He was sick.” What if Tim saw this as his only escape? What if he believed that he was relieving of headache and heartache? Can we blame him for wanting to stop his treatments, to stop feeling trapped by his own mind, to find peace? Two years have passed since that Good Friday. I have a son now and couldn’t imagine him fading in such a manner. I surround him with love and ensure that he knows the support that will follow him for the rest of his life. Perhaps suicide isn’t entirely selfish. It is us, the broken left behind, who are selfish to ask them to remain miserable? Once they are committed, who are we to stop them from becoming free?

Response to Classmate Jenna Harvie's "Oddity- Family Licks," Week 5

First of all, extremely odd on your family's part, but definitely relate-able for most families. Second, I think you should expand upon this essay since "there's no place too inappropriate." Even though you provide some intimate moments when this greeting has occurred, I want to know the most inappropriate place this has happened to you or even someone you know. How old were you, and how did you react? Did you remain calm and collected or did you vacate the premises immediately? Has anyone besides yourself performed this greeting on your boyfriend? If so, what happened? Reflect a little here. Third, your "instructions" on how to perform the greeting are laid out with clarity with a reportage tone but with specific language choices to intrigue the reader to continue and imagine the greeting taking place. Lastly, I like the imagery you apply to the different experiences of licking your family members. You don't linger on the adjectives, but provide enough details to balance out the essay, keeping it clean and interesting with a sense of reality. You chose distinct physical feelings, smells, tastes that most people know or have experienced which allows your story to be relate-able to those with similar “traditions” and to those who know how a stubbed toe on concrete feels. 

Reportage, Week 5

As I walk into the 5x5 room, harsh fluorescent lights blind and cause my spine to tighten up like a rattle-snake whose sleep was disturbed. White walls with the fingerprints and shoe scuffs of previous patients jump out and scream the depressing reality of the MRI center. Behind the secretary’s make shift desk attached to a wall divider hangs a gallery of gaudy, 1930s prints of vases holding flowers and water pitchers. Colored primarily with pinks, purples, and gold, they look like pictures my great grandmother would hang over the toilet of her hall bathroom. I suppose they pair nicely with the green rug that holds hints of pink, blue, and purple—lovely combination. It looks as though a gay pride parade marched right through and threw their glitter in all directions. Of course, this ensemble of a waiting room would not be complete without the traditional, in your face, “look how amazing we are,” framed accomplishments of the office. Newspaper clippings from 2001, certificates of recognition from the 80s, a doctorate from 1991 line the wall across from the main line of $10 chairs seen at Big Lots, staring the next victim of the MRI machine in the face. 

Junkyard Quotes 1-4 Week 5

A few quotations heard at work this past Wednesday when MET (Merchandising Execution Team) came to the store to help with Spring Reset in Garden [I want to try and tie them in later on in terms of a "sex in the workplace" avenue.]

1. "Stacy, are you a Racetrac or a Quiktrip?"

2. "Her part time job is on top of an ambulance. Waaah!" 

3. "If you are going to quote me, I want recognition for my contribution in the workplace." -Ian Squires

4. At a grocery store: Tony and I walked past this young girl (probably about 4 or 5 years old) and her mother in the produce area. When she saw us, she turned to us, started shaking her hips, and yelled: "I'm sexy and I know it!"

Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 3

1. Me: "[My co-worker] is such a dumbass."
    Tony: "Yeah, what a dumbass." Turns to our 10-month-old son. "Can you say dumbass, Ashten?"
    Ashten starts crying and getting upset.
    Tony: "Ok, ok. You don't have to dumbass if you don't want to."

2. "She won't eat the chips without the cheese." - My mom in reference to feeding her dog tortilla chips and how she will not eat them without nacho cheese.

3. "Every girl at heart is a romp." - Lisa Crafton teaching the class about Jane Austen and Mary Wollstonecraft

4. "It’s half-time, America. And our second half’s about to begin." – Super Bowl Advertisement featuring Clint Eastwood

Oddity 2, Week 2

Romantic Horror. 

While eating dinner last night, my fiance randomly stated, "You know what's a really weird combination? Romantic horror." Perplexed by both this odd outburst and the clashing of genres, I asked him what he meant and to provide an example. He merely replied, "'My Bloody Valentine' is both a horror flick and a romance movie, and I just got that." Since I had never seen it, Tony felt the need to educate me after putting the baby to bed that night. Once the movie ended, I have to say I agree with him. 

The plot of the film focuses on a man named Tom Hanniger that returns to his old hometown on the tenth anniversary of a massacre that claimed the lives of 22 people. Shortly upon returning, he learns that the people of the town believe him to be guilty of the crime committed ten years prior. In order to clear his name, he has to discover who actually killed the 22 people years ago. The romantic element becomes incorporated into the story line when it is revealed that his old girlfriend is the only one who believes his didn't kill those 22 people. 

I just found this really interesting that these two genres can come together with ease and work extremely well. Also, after watching the movie, I thought about a few other movies that fit into this "genre": "Bride of Frankenstein," "Dracula," "The Lost Boys." I guess this combination isn't that uncommon. It just sounded "odd" when vocalized. 

Original Prompt, Week 2

"Visitor" by Michael W. Cox

In "Visitor," the main character recounts his father's interactions with a strange young boy secretly living in their basement. This young teenager's, Jody, existence remains a mystery to the entire family except for the father and the narrator, and even though the narrator's father warns him not to go into the basement, he still does and becomes "friends" with the stranger. He brings him sandwiches and talks with him like a normal human being. (Unlike the father who only uses Jody for sexual endeavors.) As the story progresses, the son seems to know or gather what transpires between these younger boys and his father but doesn't confront his father. The young narrator even comments on how "lame" his father's lies were to other people and called them "stories" (146-7). Due to his inability to confront his father, these boys and his father's actions remain "strangers" to him.

Original Prompt:
Describe the meeting of a stranger either during childhood or as an adult. Was it awkward? Were you original mean to this person? Why did you talk to this person to begin with? What peaked your interest about this person.

Response to Classmate 2, Week 2- Response to Pam's Memory 2

Although Davidson said not to get too adjective happy, I think the interaction about the BB shooting itself needs just a little more detail. If not more adjectives, then dialogue definitely and more thought process. MacKenzie already pointed out the reaction of the mother, but do you remember your own reactions by chance? I feel the need for a little more emotion from the narrator. Secondly, I think you might have two different stories here - the BB incident and the building up of masculine personality by your father. I think you already developed a lot of the key characteristics and events that the second story would require, and I would begin with the line about your dad warned you about the bullying Dan would do to you. You may not have meant to word the events in such a manner, but I find it extremely interesting how your father encouraged you to be tough and be a good ball-player and then decided you didn't need to play baseball because it was an all-male team. I would LOVE to see more of these memories come together for an essay. 

However, I too would like to hear more about the BB incident between you and your brother in great depth with lots more dialogue, as Mackenzie as already mentioned.

Oddity 1 / Memory 2, Week 2

This is a collaboration between two different areas we are supposed to write upon. This transaction took place about two weeks ago, but I remember thinking how crazy (odd) the combination of Chuck E Cheese and alcohol seemed. Looking back now, it is still a little odd, but totally makes sense once one has experienced "Mouse Hell."

As I walked through the double glass doors, aromas of old pizza, feet, and BO slapped me in the face. Screams of bratty children engulfed my ears causing an instantaneous migraine. As a twenty-one year new mom, Chuck E Cheese was the last place I wanted to spend a Friday night with my nine month old and without my husband. Before entering the "play area," my son and I both received an invisible stamp signifying that he was mine and I can leave with him later. Instead of placing a stamp on my son's hand, however, the surly hostess placed a sticker on his car seat that would not come off now matter how hard I scrubbed. It remains slightly faded on the left side of his car seat two weeks later. After being branded with the Mouse's ownership, I sauntered up to the counter behind my younger brothers and waited on my turn to order- garden salad, small drink, and $10 in tokens so I could play Skee-ball with Aaron for his birthday.

"Would you like a beer with your salad?" the attendant questioned from behind the metal counter.
"Excuse me?" I must not have heard her correctly.
"A beer. We carry several different brands, and we also sell wine if you would prefer that instead. I can show you a drink menu if you'd like." Alcohol with these kids running around? Are they nuts? My new-found motherly instinct went into overdrive as I stared at the 16-year-old part-timer with wide-eyes and jaw slightly ajar.
"Why would sell alcohol with all these kids around? Isn't this a kid's restaurant?"
"Yes ma'am. But most parents claim that they need a beer just to get through an hour and a half of 'Mouse Hell.'" Makes sense.

Week 2 Classmate Response- Response to Jenna Harvie's Junkyard Quotes

The avenue you took with your junkyard quotes this week interested and peaked my curiosity. I know this probably won't help much in regards to your quotes, but while reading, I was reminded of one particular "weird" restaurant I dined at with my family, and I thought it might generate an interesting prompt for you or others to work on over the next few weeks. Maybe you could tie in some of your junkyard quotes or others from that website.

For my 16th birthday, my parents took my brothers and I to a "fine dining" restaurant with a prominent pirate theme. As soon as we walked in, the host plastered name tags on each of us with corny, Disney-fied pirates names like "Smee" or "Bluebeard." At least none of my brothers received a tag that read "Hello, My name is Betty the Barrel-chested." I did though. My mother immediately ripped this name off my shirt before the whole world narrowed in on my chest.

"What or where is the oddest place you have eaten and what made it odd?" Maybe a little too narrow. Perhaps something odd that occurred while you eating at a restaurant? I know this doesn't help too much, but it definitely got me thinking.

Reportage, Week 2

Early morning, after a messy breakfast of fruit medley and oatmeal, Ashten, my nine-month-old son, required a bath. While drawing the warm water from the tank below, I added no-tear, lavendar bubble bath and tossed in a few bath toys to preoccupy him while I washed his auburn hair. After managing to get clothes off the over-excited child, I placed him in the tub and he immediately attacked the multi-colored stacking rings and began splashing suds onto the floor. He laughed and crawled all over the tub as I attempted to catch him and scrub the lumpy oatmeal off his face and hands. Eventually, I was successful-even while he teethed on his royal blue rubber ducky. Once squeaky clean, I turned to retrieve a towel from the shelf behind me. When I turned back, Ashten stood up in anticipation of my plucking him from the bath water. As I reached for him, he slipped on the slimy, soapy tub floor and ended up submerged. Underwater, he remained wide-eyed with his mouth instinctly closed. Frozen for only a moment, I immediately removed him from the bath, wrapped him, and soothed him as his cries echoed throughout an empty house.

Memory 1, Week 2 - 2 Boxes of Flooring

Sunday night marks the end of the work week with a total of forty hours once again. The daily grind of customer complaints, returns, and processing customer orders consumes all energy of retail employees. I don't recall the stint I was coerced into working or how many days were left until I popped. All I remember how cherry-faced he became when my manager told him to "go to hell."

A 40-something year old man reeking of cigarettes and dog urine wished to return two boxes of faux-wood, laminate flooring from his kitchen project. After processing the transaction, cash to cash, he asked me to remove the two boxes from his cart so he would not have to use another.

"Sir, I cannot lift them, but I will be more than happy call our lot associate to help you."
"Why can't you do it?" My protruding figure remained oblivious to him.
"Sir, I'm nine months pregnant-"
"I see that. And your point?" richocheted the man, burning his words into my emotional state.
"I can't lift anything more than ten pounds.If you give me just a moment, I can call-"
"You mean to tell me, that they hire people who can't do any physical work around here?" That hurt. Working an average of forty hours a week as a part timer while nine months pregnant didn't click for most people, I guess.
"Sir-"
"Let me speak to your manager." As my MOD reached the counter, the sting from the man's words read on my face. Her 80s-ified hair and bright pink lipstick smacked the man across the face as he began to complain about how she needed to hire people who can actually do some work on the clock. When she informed him that my son's conception took place while I was an employee there, he simply said that I should have been fired.

"Sir, I don't need to do anything. However, you need to either get some Jesus in your life or go to Hell."

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 2

"That is what poetic sex is all about."

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 2

"Can you make poop chili for me?" -My youngest brother who wanted me to add cheese and crackers to his bowl of chili and mix it up. Out of the mouths of babes.

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 2

On a shopping trip in Wal-mart with my mom in almost 2 years. As we are walking in, I instinctly stop and glance around.

Me: "Wow, I just realized that I haven't been in a Wal-mart in almost two years."

My Mom: "So? You waiting on an award or something?"

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 2

"I walked into the kitchen and my dad was playing solitaire with safety goggles and listening to Beyonce." - Friend's status update on Facebook

Rsponse to Jenna's Week 1 Memory

Your use of explicit and researched details really hits a home run for me as a reader. When you describe the multiple items that could have been in the dentist's mouth, I thought your incorporation of detail was strong without going completely overboard. Also, you brought a great deal of realism to the story. As a reader, I immediately played this scene out with my younger self out as the main character. (I also felt the same way in regards to the prize box. It was even more annoying when I was thirteen and the assistant was still begging me to take a prize.)
When you finally reach the second toy portion of the story, I began reading this as two different stories coming together. I recommend that you stay with the dentist route and bring in more description about the appointment itself. Did the dentist's breath smell like smoke or was it minty fresh? What did the room look like? Was it typically '90s decorum or was it designed as a poor attempt to relate to younger crowd? I know this is a memory from years ago, but I wanted more focus on the visit itself rather than the toy store that followed.

Memory 1, Week 1

"Fat Free"

He jokingly called out "fatty," but I heard him scream that I belonged in some sick porno flick where the fat girl slops up rib meat off some trimmed frat boy's chest. I wasn't sure if tears or laughter were appropriate at this point. I just stood there under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Carrollton Home Depot break room with a half-eaten peanut butter and chocolate brownie containing walnuts protruding from my mouth. My inner fat kid couldn't decide whether or not to finish the brownie or waste it by throwing it back up on the poorly laid laminate floor. I guess if I did upchuck it, the resulting mess would match the theme of the room- shit. Shit-green walls that resembled my infant son's dirty diaper after eating peas the night before. As I attempted to control the knee-jerk reaction of my stomach, I searched the room for something, anything to focus on to avoid the shell-shocked expression of my fellow co-workers. I glance at the Magic Chef coffee pot bought down the street at Lowe's looked as though it hadn't been cleaned since Bernie and Arthur founded the company resembling a returned 2-year-old toilet. This only churned my stomach more. A local newspaper from the previous week peppered the floor and twisted the knife in my state of depression. I sat down in a chair that straddled a corner of the room, finished the brownie hanging out of my mouth, and chased it with some fat free milk.

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 1

"I hate seeing fat people dance." -Co-worker

Just funny...

Thought I would share this with everyone. :)

"'If you fall, I'll be there.' -Floor"  -Found on facebook

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 1

"I'm majoring in Bra-burning." -Lucas when discussing the Women's Studies minor

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 1

"Yes, he's a Mayan MacGyver." -Dr. Erben when discussing the character Jaguar Paw in Mel Gibson's film Apocalypto 

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 1

"Civilian life's for pansies." -Random military member walking through Home Depot

Introductions

Before taking this class, I had never tried my hand at Creative Non-fiction. To be honest, I feel a total lack of preparedness for this class both academically and creatively. Even though I enjoy writing poetry, I have never been instructed or "molded" as a poetic writer. I am posting some drafts of poems I have been working on the past couple of semesters.

Madwoman, badwoman—

Nothing but a reflection in a mirror,

an “I” specialist,

a sour lemon; hard to swallow,

A book long forgotten,

A pest, a gnat.

Forced to fall silent—

Abused by the affection of another,

Trapped within a resilient grip,

Preyed upon by men intimidated.

Costing more than hunger, thirst;

Compensating only with cold.

Little girls, trash those foolish ideals.

Our dreams of love—

dead.

Never will we leave this attic

nor see the light of day.

Society’s fist chipping more of us.

Madwoman, badwoman—

Beaten black and blue—

the foundation of underprivileged dreams

ripped away.

First a crack—

eventually shattering.

Character is Fate

Tonight, I am ugly.

Foul, ruined meat—

Unable to be consumed.

Hued lights consume

Forcing reds, oranges, violets.

Music screams out a faceless box—

Pouring broken chords, dissonant melodies;

Defacing flesh, limbs—

No longer can be put together again.

I go deep into them

To know their juvenile shenanigans.

Without emotion, I let them kiss me—

Boys hot for forced quickies

In search of new toys to play with—

Encasing me with poisoned, wet scars.

Hating the little gentlemen

Who dispel sexual cravings freely,

I cry desolately in the kitchen—

Tears fall on the dirty dishes,

Salting the dinner yet served.

 Breathe

Breathe slowly—in and out.

A salty breeze blows through—

wisps of hair caress the face.

Pregnant clouds arrest the night sky—

only the moon penetrates.

Deep breaths—in, out.

Tones of blue and green

dance to the melody of the Earth.

Foam like fresh snow

tumbles upon the shore.

Breathing in and out—

sun-bleached toes slowly succumb.

Inch by inch, the water rises

and the grainy floor fades.

Floating in Natura’s womb.

Still breathing—

In through the nose,

out through the mouth.

Riptides tug and pull—

another ragdoll to be claimed.

In, out, in, out—

breathe quickly.

Harsh salt water immerses—

Blinding

and silencing

Muffled crashing

Perception

becomes blurred—

Silence—

Breathing

no

more.

Cut

Freshly cut, I become seduced.

Sweet earthy vapors intertwine,

clouding all senses.

Sensual repeated pricks

tickle and excite.

Moistened palms, dirt-filled mouth—

nervousness gnaws at my core.

When joined, your glass beads shatter—

raping my exposed soles.

I lay encompassed

by your morning juices.

Shackled each daybreak,

incarcerated after every cut.

Also, here is a piece of fiction I worked on last semester in Professor Chaple's Intermediate Creative Fiction class. Although I enjoyed the class, I don't think fiction is my forte. 

Should Have Been a Boy

Julie was seven when it happened. She was lying on the beige shag rug in the family room playing checkers with her older brother, Nicolas, when the song on the radio was interrupted by an emergency news broadcast. A series of beeping and screeching sounds filled the room, causing her spine to tighten and her teeth to clench. Her father, who had been sitting on the sofa reading a book, took a deep breath as a man’s voice delivered the earth-shattering news. “We have witnessed this morning the attack of Pearl Harbor and a severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by army planes, undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done. This battle has been going on for nearly three hours. One of the bombers dropped within 50 feet of KTU tower. It’s no joke. It’s a real war.”

Another round of screeching and beeping noises filled the room once more and silence followed. Eons of silence seemed to pass before her mother, Linda, who entered the living room from the connected kitchen, broke into tears and collapsed on the floor. Showing little emotion, her father rose from the sofa, crossed the room to where his wife was crying, and knelt down beside her. Julie’s attention was suddenly drawn away from her parents by a massive blur that bolted past her and out the back door. It was Nicolas with wet eyes.

“Nicky, what’s going on?” she called after her brother, but he didn’t answer. He just swung open the door and ran out into the woods. Probably to his hideout, Julie thought. He won’t be coming home anytime soon. Confused by the events, she turned back to her beaten parents.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” Once again, she didn’t receive a response. While attempting to control her mother’s hysterical outbursts, her father just stared at her. It was the most terrifying moment of her life, and she didn’t even fully comprehend.

Back then, she didn’t understand what the words “war” and “draft” meant. She and her school friends thought war was a holiday for daddies and older brothers. A time for the boys to hang out without the interference of mommies, work, and annoying little siblings, and receive an endless supply of cookies and chocolate milk while relaxing on a beach somewhere. And she didn’t understand why her mother was lying on the floor in tears. Now that her father was leaving, her mother could have more lunch dates with her new friends. Julie had met one of them before. A big, burly man named Tim with more hair on his face than on his head. He had bought Julie a piece of strawberry cheesecake once as an incentive to keep her mother’s friendship with him a secret. He had called it a “surprise” for her father. She didn’t understand how it would be a surprise or why her Daddy would be bothered by their friendship. Back then, she didn’t understand a lot of things. All Julie understood was that the emergency broadcast meant two things to her. First, Japan was in trouble with America, and second, Nicolas, her eighteen year old brother, and her father were going on holiday for a long time.

*   *   *   *

It was fall of 1941. Japan hadn’t attacked Pearl Harbor yet, and her father and brother were still at home. Before the attack, things were happy in their house. Every Monday night, the King family would cook dinner together and take weekly turns deciding what to cook. Julie always picked spaghetti—it was her favorite. She would crush the tomatoes up for the sauce and help measure out all of the ingredients.

“Do you have everything?” Julie’s father asked with bright eyes and a huge grin planted on his face.

“Uh-huh. Four cups of mushed tomatoes, one spoon of paste, six basil leaves, three pieces of garlic, one cut up onion, and some meat. See I’m a big girl now, Daddy. You don’t have to worry about anything,” she replied, returning a similar smile. Nothing short of perfection on spaghetti night. Her favorite part, however, was the garlic toast. She and her father would tackle the toast while Nicolas and their mother would make the dessert. Actually Nicolas would make the dessert while their mother would slip outside and pull a hidden bottle of whiskey out of a flower pot in the corner. She thought we didn’t notice, but the stench was too strong to ignore.

“Cheese, cheese,” cried Julie.

“Ok, Jules. Settle down before you fall off of your stool.” Her father had built that stool just for her so she could help out in the kitchen. On the stool, he had painted a teddy bear with a blue ribbon on each side. He originally attempted to use the color pink, but Julie was quick to tell him that she hated that color.

After reassuring himself that Julie wasn’t going to fall over, he walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a block of mozzarella cheese, and began to grate it. After he finished, Julie would have the honor of sprinkling on the cheese before it was placed in the oven. He always let her add extra.

*   *   *   *

About a week after the broadcast, Julie’s father and brother went to her father’s former home military base in an attempt to enlist in the United States Army. As they went through their evaluations, the psychologists asked them numerous questions in hopes of discovering at least one psycho in the room, and the medical professionals poked and prodded until they both bore several fresh bruises. Her father, already possessing a military background, was immediately reinstated to his previous position of Lieutenant. However, her brother received unwelcomed news in the commanding officer’s office that morning.

Julie’s brother later referred to him as “one of those Washington birds who has never even fired a gun at another human being.” He stood erect in his pressed white dress uniform. Although he never seemed angry, his gaze seemed to pierce a hole right through Nicolas.

            “Mr. King, I need to speak with you and your son together. Can you please follow me?” the towering man asked with a forceful tone in his voice.

            “Yes sir,” replied her father. Once in the Captain’s office, they took adjacent seats to his desk as the Captain hunched over with a solemn look on his face.

“Jack, is everything alright?” asked Julie’s father.

“I’m afraid not. I have some bad news for your son, Robert.” Nicolas pushed his body to the edge of his seat and rubbed his sweaty palms back and forth over one another.

“I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your enlistment paperwork has been denied.”

“What are you talking about?” yelled Nicolas as he stood up.                                

“Nicolas, please sit back down,” his father demanded.

“No, sir. I’m not. Why the hell can’t I join? You’re letting my old man back in after he has been out for almost ten years, but you won’t take a strong, young man like me. Why not? I demand to know why I—”

“That’s enough! Sit down.” His father gave him a look that screamed “shut your mouth right now.” Looking back at the captain, Robert asked him to continue.

“Son, I’ve watched you grow up over the years. Your father is the best friend a man could ever ask for, and I know how much you wanted to join the military. Hell, with your spunk I’d love for you to be a member of my outfit, but the reality is that you failed your psychiatric evaluations. I’m afraid you can’t join up with your dad or re-test for another two months.” Nicolas just stared at the floor, speechless. Everything he ever wanted was ripped away from him because of a mental test.

“At least you will be able to stay home and take care of your mom and sister. Hell, she may be the reason you can’t pass anyway—eight years of listening to an annoying little sister,” the captain proclaimed in an attempt to cheer Nicolas up. But it didn’t work. Distraught, Nicolas stormed out of the room and headed into town.

When Robert got home and explained to his wife what happened, she didn’t say anything. She merely walked into kitchen and began cooking dinner. The house went still. Julie was playing with her dolls, Nicolas wasn’t home yet, and her father was sitting in the family room reading the paper. The only sound to be heard was the sobbing of Julie’s mother in the kitchen. It was the saltiest dinner Julie had ever eaten.

*   *   *   *

            Only a few months had passed since her father had left, but things were already heading south in the King household. Linda began spending more and more time away from home, and her number of friends flourished. To Julie, it seemed as though her mother was going to dinner with a different friend every weekend and all of them were boys. Eventually she started bringing them home. The first time was with Bill. 

Julie could hear them through the wall. She could hear loud banging and short yells now and again. The first time it happened, she ran into her parent’s room across the hall and swung open the door.

            “What the hell was that?” her mother cried out. Julie couldn’t believe her eyes. Her mother was in bed with Bill—the bed that both of her parents once shared. They were naked and touching each other. Julie wasn’t sure what exactly was transpiring, but she felt sick to her stomach.

            “Mommy?”

            “Oh, god,” her mother whispered as she turned and stared at her innocent daughter. “Jules baby, Bill is just helping me exercise. He’s massaging Mommy’s sore muscles. Ok, sweetie? Just go play with your dolls, and we’ll go get some ice cream in a little bit. How’s that sound?”

            “Ok,” she whimpered as she shut the door. Julie ran back into her room, shut the door, crawled under bed, and hid in her closet. Screams of pleasure, “Oh, Linda,” and “Fuck me harder, Bill” filled the once happy home. Even though Julie tried to block it out, the banging and screaming continued. Julie just shut her eyes and covered her ears with her hands.

“They’re just exercising. That’s all,” she repeated to herself aloud in an attempt to deafen the screams even more.  “It’s not what you think. Just exercising.” The world around her was muffled and dark. She didn’t notice her brother when he came into her room. He knelt down beside her bed and tapped her on the shoulder. Julie opened her eyes and pulled her hands away from her ears.

“They aren’t exercising. They’re fucking, and you know it.”

“Shut up, Nicolas. She wouldn’t do that to Daddy!”

“You can’t ignore it Julie. It’s time to grow up.” Nicolas left her sitting there with tears in her eyes and headed toward his room. As he walked in, he slammed the door, momentarily interrupting the repetitive banging in the next room.

“They’re just exercising.” But the exercising happened every weekend with a different friend each time.

*   *   *   *

It was March of 1942. School was out for Spring Break, and Julie’s mother was hung over again. She was puking and being bitchy towards both of her children, but that day was better than most. Sometimes their mother would even throw pots and pans at them. It was those days that Julie sat in her room and re-read her father’s letters from over the past few months.

With each letter received, Julie She didn’t understand where Europe was in the world or even what was taking place. To her, it sounded like a dream vacation. Their father’s letters didn’t help with the situation. Instead he fed into her little fantasy by leaving out particular details about the bombed landscape and the mangled bodies. He even made the parachute soldiers sound like they were having fun jumping out of airplanes at hundreds of feet in the air and even compared them to the toy soldiers Nicolas had so many years ago. What he failed to mention was how the parachuters were being shot at as they drifted to the earth below. Even though he attempted to protect his daughter’s innocence, she already knew the cold truth.

Each night at approximately six o’clock, she sat with Nicolas and listened to the world news, specifically news about the war. Each night there were numbers of dead, wounded—no names. Only numbers. There was news of small and large victories and losses and predictions of what a nation might do next. Even though she kept telling Nicolas that their father was on vacation and that he would be home, she knew deep down what was going on in Europe. She didn’t know where it was located, but she knew that their dad could be killed.

*   *   *   *

One December afternoon around lunchtime, Julie was sitting at the kitchen table making snowflakes out of coffee filters and glitter when two uniformed men arrived. The doorbell rang, and Julie ran to answer it. Upon opening the door, she noticed that they uniformed men wearing dressed exactly like her father was when he left.

            “May we speak to your mother?” asked the older man. No sooner had the man finished his question, Julie’s mother appeared around the corner, wearing a mask of blank expression.

            “Julie, go to your room,” she said forcefully.

            “But Mom—”

            “Just do it!” Julie didn’t hesitate this time. Once upstairs, she left her bedroom door open so she could attempt to hear what her mother and the two men were discussing. However, they were speaking so low that she wasn’t able to make out too much. All she heard with clarity were the words “Lieutenant King” and “arrange for him and his belongings to be brought home.”

            “Daddy’s coming home?” Julie barely whispered. Unable to contain her excitement, she began to dance around her room, jump on her bed, and giggle as quietly as possible. “Daddy’s coming home, Daddy’s coming home,” she sang to herself in a hushed voice.

After the two uniformed men left, Julie’s mother sauntered back into the kitchen. She looked as though she had seen a ghost—pale, frightened, but no tears fell from her eyes.

 “Mommy, Mommy,” Julie screamed as she ran across the house and into the kitchen. “Who were those men? What did they say? Does Daddy get to come home early?  Will he be home in time for Christmas? Oh, boy! I can’t wait to see Daddy again. When will he be home Mama? I want to make him a special Christmas present. Maybe he will get me…” She kept rambling on and on as a typical nine year old would, but her mother never replied. Instead, she continued making her peanut butter and raisin sandwich.

“He’s not coming home, Julie,” my brother announced.

“What do you mean? I heard those men talking about Daddy. Of course he’s coming home. Right, Mommy?” Her mother wouldn’t look at her. She just stared at the food on the kitchen table, crying.

“No, he isn’t. He’s dead. Those men came by to tell us that he was killed in action. It’s over Julie.”

“No, he’s not,” Julie yelled at Nicolas. “He’s coming home. He promised. Don’t lie to me.” Her brother shot across the kitchen so fast that Julie didn’t have any time to react. He grabbed her around her waist, held her under his arm, and began to beat her. Julie’s mother still did not budge.

“Mommy…Mommy, help me,” Julie called out. She didn’t move. Julie continued to call out to her mother while attempting to wriggle her way out from under her brother’s arms with tears streaming down her face. “Please Mommy! Make him stop. It hurts, it hurts. Daddy would stop him. Help me.” Without evening glancing up, her mother finished making their lunch, sat it on the dining room table, and walked upstairs with a bottle of gin in tow.

“Daddy is not coming home,” Nicolas declared as he slowed his spanking. “He’s dead. And from now on, I am going to be in charge. I am going to be the new Daddy of the house.” He then stopped and set Julie down on the floor. She immediately began to sit down to continue crying.

“Stop crying like a little girl. You need to be tough. Life isn’t fair, and the sooner you learn that the better.” But she wouldn’t stop crying. “Why couldn’t you have been a boy? You just had to be a whining little girl who can’t take a spanking and who drives me insane. You’re the reason I couldn’t pass my evaluation. You drive me absolutely crazy. It’s your fault I couldn’t be there for him. I could have saved him. It’s your fault he’s dead. You should have been a boy.” She continued to wail as Nicolas repeatedly attempted to force her to stand up. When he realized that it was useless, he set her on the counter, grabbed a pair of scissors, and cut her pigtails off. She was no longer his sister.

“You hate the color pink so much that you can be the little brother I always wanted. Not some scrawny brat like yourself,” Nicolas said to her as he pulled her up the stairs and into her room. As he dragged her, he gave her multiple bruises and rug burns from tugging on her with so much force. When they reached her room, Nicolas tore down Julie’s dolls off of the shelf and threw all of her girly clothes in a trash bag. Waves of purples, oranges, greens, and yellows crashed around her room. Julie just watched.